make the storm cloud break
by hwkitty
Summary: the thing about love is that it's uncomfortable. makes you wanna climb out of your skin, you're so electrified. / roxy can't figure out how to tell jane how she feels- and then she can. / crossposted to ao3 with better formatting.


it's seven a.m., the sun is rising, and you're sitting on warm, wet concrete. dirk is beside you, his jaw set in that way it gets when he is concentrating intensely. your legs are swinging out, out into the city, out into the roar of distant traffic and the clusters of concrete and steel and somewhere beyond, suburbia. you feel miserable. staying up all night isn't nearly as fun as it was when you were fifteen.

you sit next to dirk and let him stew about jake, and you wipe your hand on your shorts, and you take a deep swig from the bottle next to you while you stew about jane. a philosophical question bubbles forth:

"if we started from the bottom," you say, "d'you think it's possible we went lower?"

it's stupid, but it puts a sardonic smile on dirk's face.

"i think," he says, "that it's fairly plausible, yeah."

* * *

the thing about love is that it's uncomfortable. makes you wanna climb out of your skin, you're so electrified. jane crocker is just such a beauty—the way she walks, laughs, opens the oven, tastes frosting, whips meringue. right now, your entire existence is focused on holding back the tide of your affection until you can get her to higher ground.

but she comes to your apartment one hung-over morning to play nurse and you can't fucking do this anymore. your emotional dam is swelling at the seams, and she's not been there but five minutes, and your head feels like a miniature percussion ensemble is giving a recital using only your skull for a drum.

she sets a glass of water on the coffee table and leans over you to tuck you in. she smells of fresh linens and vanilla. her hand, cool on your forehead, is soft and pleasant.

"jane," you say. your voice sounds like you haven't spoken in a hundred years.

"hm?" she's busy fixing the blanket so your feet don't stick out.

 _i love you,_ your brain says.  
 _i love you,_ your heart says.

"thanks," says your traitorous mouth.

you take the aspirin jane hands you and try not to explode.

* * *

two months later, you stare at the clock.

it's eleven p.m. on a friday, and you are stone cold sober.

that's right: roxy lalonde has Quit Alcohol. no such luck with jane, though. funny how some habits are easier to kick than others.

you stare into the mirror, gripping the sides of the sink as you decide—it's friday night.

you need something to do.

it's storming outside, but it doesn't matter. you're walking anyway, feet sliding in your flip-flops as you fail to keep your umbrella from turning inside out. dirk texts you like he always does when he knows you're doing something stupid, and you, as always, ignore him. you don't have to do this now, he says. but he's just jealous because he won't do what you're about to. you could call him now, but you don't.

instead, you get on the last train out to the suburbs.

* * *

it's only lightly drizzling out here, and so jane is visibly puzzled to see you standing at her door soaking wet.

you go to hug her, and she lets you because she's the sweetest human being on earth. lets you so that she can smell for alcohol on you, and she smiles when she detects none, and lets you in.

as ever, there's a delicious smell coming from the kitchen. you stand on jane's welcome mat as she finds some clothes for you to wear. you strip right there in the living room while she goes to check on her cake, and then you dress again, padding into the kitchen doorway.

jane is finishing the icing, and you test your resolve. just a little closer, lalonde.

you sidle into the space beside her, leaning against the kitchen counter, heart in your throat and shoulder to shoulder. she looks up at you with her blue, blue eyes, questioning. you laugh awkwardly.

"janey, i can't keep doing this," you say.

"do what?"

"keep taking care of me like you do. showing up at your house, eating all your cake."

"burning all my crops and romancing all my women," she smiles. "i don't mind, roxy."

"i dunno if it's worth it, though." you don't know if _you're_ worth it.

she looks at you sharply.

"now, roxy lalonde, what's gotten into you," it's not a question. "of course it is. i love you," she says, cheeks pink. "i just don't know how else to show it."

you can only blink at her for a second. consider this: jane said she loves you, but she's blushing. your heart leaps mutinously as you turn to really face her.

"jane crocker," you say, "i love you so much it hurts," and then you're kissing her.

she tastes like strawberry buttercream and the last vestiges of vanilla cake batter. when her arms curl around your waist, every ounce of fear you ever had jumps ship, displaced by pure, undistilled bliss.

she only makes you stop kissing her to get the cake out of the oven. while it cools, she gets a container of strawberries from the fridge and begins to slice them thinly while you stand there like a dumbass.

and just like that, jane crocker changes your world again.

 _this isn't really happening,_ says your brain.  
 _isn't it?_ asks your heart.

before your mouth can say anything, jane turns back to you, offering the container.

"strawberry?" she asks.

"yeah," you say after a moment, "that'd be perfect."

and really, you think, it is.


End file.
